


My Little Sex Puppet

by sierra_roe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Anonymous Sex, BDSM, Blindfolds, Bondage, Cock Slut, Dom Jim Moriarty, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Face-Fucking, Fluff and Smut, Healthy Relationships, Humiliation, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Polyamory, Public Blow Jobs, Restraints, Self-Bondage, Semi-Public Sex, Slut Sherlock, Stranger Sex, Sub Sherlock Holmes, consensual pimping, consensually forced slutting, consulting boyfriends, fucking as aftercare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:41:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23669320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sierra_roe/pseuds/sierra_roe
Summary: In which Moriarty plans a treasure hunt for his boyfriend that leads to Sherlock giving a bound blowjob to a stranger in an alley. About as wholesome and fluffy as something this filthy can be.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 76





	1. The Fluffy Chapter

Sherlock awakens slowly, rolling over in Moriarty’s fine linens and luxuriating in the feeling of the high thread count against his bare skin. Before Moriarty, Sherlock had known about things like high thread count in a somewhat academic sense – he understood what they represented about the persons who chose to buy them, but knowing more than that had seemed like a waste of time, useless information that would never be relevant. But now, after sleeping on them, and sleeping _with_ Moriarty on them, he had started to understand the appeal of this particular pleasure a little more. Of course there were other things that he hadn’t understood about physical pleasure before that he understood now, thanks again to Moriarty. Although he would never admit it out loud, in some ways Moriarty was much more clever than he was, because he understood things not just intellectually, but physically, in a visceral way in his body, the way Sherlock understood things in his head.

Sherlock can hear Moriarty in the kitchen, water running in the sink as he makes breakfast. Some people, like John, think it’s odd that Sherlock only refers to his boyfriend by his surname, but it has a secret meaning to the two of them, a nod to the dynamic of their relationship. Sometimes Moriarty is Professor or Sir, but never the informal _James_ or, heaven forbid, _Jim_. 

At one point, Sherlock had thought himself asexual, superior to those plebeians who were driven by the base pleasures of the flesh. Moriarty had quickly discovered how to rid him of this notion. All Sherlock really needed was for someone to make sex an interesting and always changing puzzle to solve, and his body unlocked itself easily under Moriarty’s hands and commands. The man wasn’t as complicated as he liked to think, at the end of the day. 

Dishes clink on a tray as Moriarty enters the bedroom with their breakfast: soft boiled eggs with toast tips and French press coffee. Moriarty’s flat is spacious and well decorated with a clearly professional eye. The design is minimal and understated, the money only shown in the materials and the carefully selected pieces of mid-century furniture. Moriarty leans towards a neutral color scheme in general, light grays, whites, and blacks. The tray and plates and cups match the color scheme of course.

“You spoil me too much,” Sherlock tells him sleepily.

“I disagree,” Moriarty says, “I keep you just the right amount of spoiled.”

“I’ve got a surprise for you today,” he tells Sherlock as they eat breakfast, looking up at him with eyes full of potential.

Sherlock lights up. Moriarty is a planner, and there’s nothing better than when he plans a surprise for Sherlock. He’s the only person who would have any hope of keeping the detective on his toes, and he knows it and uses it to his advantage in the most sexually devious ways possible. 

“The other day, when you told me you’d have sex with anyone I wanted you to? You remember that, don’t you? It was so delightful."

“Yes, of course.” It was something they’d discussed a number of times but not acted on yet. 

Moriarty smiles mischievously. “I’ve hidden some things in the flat for you to find. Oh, and you’ll need this.” He reaches into his bedside table and pulls out a small ear piece that he switches on and fits into Sherlock’s ear. “This works two ways. I’ll be able to hear you and you’ll be able to hear me."

Later, Moriarty leaves for work or to meet with some criminal client or to wherever he usually disappears to during the day, and Sherlock starts to do the washing up. He finds the first clue without even trying when he washes Moriarty’s coffee cup. On the inside, on the bottom, several letters and numbers have been baked into the glaze. Sherlock examines the letters. It looks like the beginning of a cypher, but there’s not enough to decode anything yet. Who but Moriarty would have a custom cup made with a cypher incorporated into the piece? A search of the rest of the flat yields no more clues, and after satisfying himself that he’s looked everywhere, Sherlock pockets the cup and heads back to 221B. 

“You look like you’re in a good mood,” John says when he walks through the door, “Got a new case for us?”

“Not quite,” Sherlock says distractedly. He had been replaying the morning’s conversation in his head as he walked up the stairs, and he’d just realized that Moriarty hadn’t said whose flat the clues were hidden in. Sherlock strides to the kitchen and begins pulling out all the cups in the cupboard to inspect them.

“Er…well, very good, I’ll leave you to it, then.” John says, completely at a loss. 

Finally, at the back of the cupboard, inside a ramekin covered with dust – dust! How long ago had the man started planning this? – Sherlock finds the second clue.

The third clue is hidden under a small potted plant that Sherlock hadn’t seen in the flat before.

“John! Where did this plant come from?” 

“I purchased it at the market yesterday. Why do you ask?”

“Has Moriarty been in the flat recently?”

“What? No, and weren’t you at his last night?"

Had Moriarty managed to get John to buy this specific plant, or had he managed to get into the flat while John was in it to hide the clue? Sherlock can’t figure out right away how Moriarty pulled it off, which delights him further, to have a small and inconsequential mystery to puzzle over in the back of his head while he works on other problems. 

Sherlock adores these little games Moriarty likes to play with him. Each clue he finds feels like opening a present on Christmas morning. Or at least, it feels like what he imagines normal children would have felt about opening presents on Christmas morning. He continues to search the flat until he’s found what he believes to be all the clues, etched into a comb, written in a book, inside a shampoo bottle, and painted on a key. _A little on the nose with that last one, Moriarty,_ he thinks as he spots it. He places all the be-clued objects on the kitchen table and shuffles them, puzzling over the cypher until the correct order begins to become clear to him. John looks on from the living room, shaking his head. 

Sherlock’s eyes dart back and forth as he cracks the cypher – at first he can’t figure it out, not until he realizes that he’s not trying to decode it to turn it into letters and words, he’s trying to decode it to turn it into numbers. Moriarty’s message for him turns out to be a GPS coordinate and a time. The pleasure at having solved it quickly turns to mild disappointment at how easy it was. It felt like the intellectual equivalent of junk food, enjoyable in the moment, but leaving him fundamentally unsatisfied and craving more. He hopes that whatever Moriarty has at the location will make up for it. 

It’s still morning, and the rendez-vous isn’t for several hours. Sherlock paces impatiently in the flat, imagining what Moriarty might have in store for him. He’s an enjoyable combination of excited and nervous. There isn’t much these days that makes the detective feel nervous, and one thing he’s always appreciated about Moriarty is that he can still create this feeling in Sherlock. Judging from their conversation this morning, Moriarty will have selected someone for him to sleep with. Someone he’ll be meeting at this location. Sherlock goes to his computer, and wondering if this is cheating, looks up the coordinates. Not a flat or a hotel, just an alley. So, perhaps they’ll meet and go back to the bloke’s place. Or the woman’s? Or perhaps multiple people? Either way, the presence of the earpiece implies that Moriarty will be directing him through this encounter. The thought of it makes Sherlock’s cock start to get a little hard. The commands that Moriarty enjoys giving him during sex had originally started as a way to compensate for some of Sherlock's lingering awkwardness around the physical act, but they had evolved to more than that. At this point, Sherlock didn’t _need_ to be directed, but they both enjoyed it. He enjoyed giving up some degree of control to his boyfriend. Everything in Sherlock’s world was so tightly controlled, so decided in advance, that the appeal of giving in to someone he trusted, even the fact that he found someone he trusted as an equal, the power in that was immensely appealing. And on the other side of things, Moriarty enjoyed having the world’s greatest detective as his personal plaything for sex, a fact of which he wasn’t shy about reminding Sherlock.

Sherlock paces more, and waits.


	2. The Smutty Chapter

Finally the hour arrives and following Moriarty’s instructions, Sherlock arrives at an anonymous alleyway in central London. The GPS coordinates put him in the center of it, near part of an old iron gate that must have led somewhere at one point. Now, with the buildings built up around it, it’s a useless architectural remnant, closing off nothing. There’s a black duffle bag, the type Moriarty favors, hanging on the gate. 

The alley smells like a public toilet, because it functionally is. 

The earpiece crackles to life, “Hello darling. I need you to remove your clothes now and look in the bag.”

Sherlock smiles. So Moriarty had been watching him this whole time. He isn’t surprised, of course, but it’s nice to hear his boyfriend and have it confirmed. Looking around, he spots the nearby CCTV camera and blows it a kiss. He’s rewarded by a chuckle in his earpiece. There are upsides to having a boyfriend who’s hacked the entire London CCTV system.

Sherlock begins to strip, neatly folding his shirt, jacket, and trousers as he goes and hanging them over the top of the gate where they won’t get dirty. It’s summer but his skin prickles as a cool breeze blows over his naked flesh. The alley is shaded by the tall buildings that surround it, and it’s slightly chilly without the warmth of the sun. When he’s done folding his clothes, he sets the bag on the ground and squats to open it. Inside he finds a black pillowcase, a black thong, a set of locking leather bondage cuffs, a leather collar with a ring and chain attached, and several padlocks of various sizes, their hasps open. The keys are nowhere to be found. A thrill runs through him as he puts the pieces together about what Moriarty has in mind for him.

“Very good, pet. You’re a clever boy, so tell me what you’ve deduced. What  _ will _ I tell you to do next, hmm?”

“I suppose you want me to put this thong on and lock myself here in the alley. For someone to find, no doubt.” Saying it out loud makes it real. Saying it causes a tingly rush to run through Sherlock’s whole body, starting at his face, and ending at the tip of his cock.

“You’re so clever,” Moriarty purrs through Sherlock’s earpiece. He sounds purely delighted at his plan. “That’s why I keep you around, you know.”

Sherlock pulls the thong on, struggling somewhat to fit it over his already bulging erection. Glancing to either side at the brightness of the cross streets, he can see people passing by going about their business, but no one has bothered to glance over his way yet. 

“Get on all fours. You’ll be locking your head to that gate, and your hands to the gate as well, and it’s up to you to get it right or I’ll make sure you’ll regret it later. As you’ve seen, you don’t have the keys, so if you fuck up, no do-overs, darling. Oh, and make sure you get that hood over your head. I’ve decided you don't get to use your eyes today.”

Sherlock kneels down, the paving stones hard against his knees. The stones have been worn smooth by hundreds of years of foot traffic through the city, but it doesn’t make them any more comfortable to kneel on. Tiny pieces of alley grit dig into his flesh. He lays out everything he’ll need, then uses the small padlocks to lock the cuffs to each of his wrists. He slips the pillowcase over his head, and knowing that Moriarty would want it secure, he adds the leather collar on top and uses another small padlock to lock it into place. The pillowcase is fine linen, of course, and tightly woven, so he can see a little through it but not very well. Working mostly by feel, he loops the chain around a bar of the gate and locks it in place. He slips a large padlock through the D-ring on his right wrist and locks it to the gate, stretched out to the side. The last wrist is the trickiest, but he manages to contort his hand around to lock his left wrist in place, stretched out to his opposite side. It would have been easier to lock his hands together in the center, of course, but he and Moriarty have never been attracted to doing things the easy way. 

“ _Very_ good, pet.” Moriarty purrs approvingly into his ear when he’s done. “You have no idea how magnificent you look right now, locked all alone and vulnerable.”

As if on cue – surely it must be on cue, if he knows Moriarty – Sherlock hears footsteps approaching. Not Moriarty’s step, and not the step of anyone he knows. By the sound, this stranger is a male, medium build, fairly athletic, and wearing some kind of practical footwear. The footsteps stop near his face and through the hood, dimly, the practical footwear reveals itself to be tactical boots. 

The stranger circles around Sherlock and runs a hand over his slim body, appraising him. His hands run down Sherlock’s back, and over his haunches, pausing to spread his cheeks, slipping the thong to the side as if to inspect his prey. Sherlock is breathing hard, his cock even harder. 

“Thrust your hips out like you’re asking to be fucked,” Moriarty’s voice is a harsh whisper in his ear. 

Obediently, Sherlock arches his back and rocks his hips back under the stranger’s hand. The hand slides between his legs and grips his package, making him gasp.

“You’re going to be a good slut for me, aren’t you?” Moriarty asks in his ear, “You’re going to give him  _ whatever _ he wants.”

Sherlock nods silently, knowing that Moriarty will see it through the CCTV. The stranger’s hands are still on his ass, gripping and squeezing him as he rocks his hips back and circles them invitingly. Sherlock imagines what he looks like to Moriarty right now, on all fours locked with his head through a gate, and gyrating like he would do anything for cock. He stifles a small sound of pleasure that threatens to break free of his throat, imagining how much Moriarty must be enjoying the sight.

Abandoning his back side, to Sherlock’s slight disappointment, the stranger moves around to his front. 

“My darling, you must not have looked slutty enough today. I can see how you wanted him to take your ass.” Moriarty clucks his tongue in mock disappointment, “No matter, I’m sure it’s something we can work on.”

The man runs his hand over Sherlock’s hooded head, examining its shape through the hood. Sherlock hears a pocket knife click open and recoils instinctively, chains clinking as he jerks his head back only to be stopped short by the collar. The hand grips the fabric of the bag underneath his face, and with a tearing sound, the man uses his knife to cut a slit in the bag under Sherlock’s mouth. He snaps his knife closed and grabs the other side of the bag, tilting Sherlock’s head back and up with the fabric tight around his face. Sherlock hears an unzipping and a shuffle and feels the tip of a cock pressing against his lips. He opens his mouth and tries not to choke as the stranger pushes his cock nearly all the way in. Sherlock forces his jaw to relax as the man begins to fuck his mouth, holding his head in a tight grip with the bag. He can hear Moriarty moaning in pleasure in his ear, almost as if he’s the one receiving the blow job. The sound encourages him and makes his cock twitch and leak a little more precum as the man continues to roughly slide his cock in and out of his mouth. 

Sherlock writhes a bit in his restraints, in part because he knows Moriarty will enjoy it, but also because he enjoys feeling the leather pull against his neck and wrists, reminding him that he’s really locked there, and all the pulling in the world won’t do him any good. He didn’t put the cuffs on loosely. 

Without his hands free, Sherlock gives the blowjob his all with his tongue and throat, enthusiastically licking the stranger’s cock head when it’s pulled out far enough for him to get to it, and relaxing his jaw and trying his best not to choke when the stranger roughly slides his cock in too far. Fortunately, Moriarty’s had Sherlock on a training regimen of deepthroating lessons. Moriarty has delighted in training away Sherlock's gag reflex, and it’s certainly coming in handy now. 

When the stranger pulls his cock all the way out for a moment, Sherlock immediately opens his mouth, waiting for it to be replaced. The man teases his lips with his cock, and slaps him in the face with it a few times, eliciting a moan from Sherlock. He’s drooling a lot, making a mess that’s soaking into the fabric of the hood. Finally, the stranger seems to have had enough of teasing, and pushes his cock all the way straight to the back of Sherlock’s throat. He grips the back of his head and begins to fuck his mouth, quickly and roughly, until he shoots his load into the back of Sherlock's throat with a short grunt. 

After a moment, the man pulls away, zips up, and drops something on the ground that makes a tinkling sound as it hits the paving stones near Sherlock’s left hand. It sounded like two things that fell, two lightweight small metal things. It didn’t make the sound of keys, and as Sherlock fishes around for it as he hears the man’s footsteps retreat, he discovers it’s because it wasn’t keys at all but rather a set of lockpicks; a rake and a tension wrench. Sherlock sighs. He both adores and despises Moriarty’s tendency to make things hard for him at all times. 

“You’d better work quickly, my dear, it looks like there’s a couple police officers right around the corner. We’d certainly hate for them to notice your ass glowing in the shadows like this wouldn’t we?”

Sherlock silently curses Moriarty. His body is fighting two instincts at once. On one side, his rational brain is taking over, putting together the exact steps to get himself out of this situation as quickly as possible, churning through possibilities quicker than his body would be able to test them out, rejecting the ideas that fail and accepting the ones that pass. But part of him, the irrational part, is excited by the danger, intoxicated by the thought in the back of his head telling him that he might get caught at any moment, if he isn’t quite clever enough to get out of this one. And deep down, he loves the test, loves that Moriarty pushes him like this, both sexually and intellectually, all at once. It does something to him inside, in a way that reaches more parts of him than just his cock.

If he stretches and doesn’t worry about breathing, he can just barely reach the distance between his head and his wrist. He rips the hood off his head so he can finally see properly. First up is his left wrist cuff. He pops the end of the tension wrench into his mouth and after a couple tries manages to get it into the lock. He twists his wrist to apply torsion to the small padlock. The tricky part is keeping tension on the lock while getting the rake into it at the same time, and moving it back and forth, using just the tips of his fingers. His wrist cramps up pretty badly in the process, and he thinks he’s about to pass out from the restriction on his windpipe caused by pulling against the collar, but Sherlock’s spent a not insignificant amount of time practicing this skill. So in the end, it’s not really all that hard and with enough jiggling of the rake, the padlock finally pops open with a satisfying click. Sherlock can finally relax his neck back into place and take some deep breaths to clear the black spots that have started to cloud his vision. With his left hand free, he makes quick work of the lock on his right wrist, then moves on to the lock keeping his neck chained to the fence.

He pulls his clothes back on quickly. The cuffs stay on, hidden under his jacket. The collar too, there’s no time to get it off now, but he pulls his jacket up a bit to hide it. Grabbing the bag – no need to leave a mess, plus Moriarty would kill him if he left it there – he quickly strides towards the end of the alley, and not a moment too soon. Glancing back, he sees the two police officers just passing the other side. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this to distract myself from current circumstances. Hope it helps to distract you as well! 
> 
> The next chapter will be an aftercare chapter (but it's the kind of aftercare that involves fucking).


	3. The Aftercare Chapter Which is Also A Smutty Chapter

Sherlock arrives at Moriarty’s flat after a slightly uncomfortable taxi ride trying to ignore his raging erection as the taxi driver rambled incessantly about last night’s match. The quiet messages from Moriarty whispered directly into his ear weren’t helping either. 

_ My darling, the anticipation of waiting for you to arrive is the most delightful agony I’ve ever known... _

_ When you arrive I will RAVISH you... _

and simply

_ You are so beautiful. _

At the door, Moriarty meets him. “You left your collar on for me and everything? I love it! You look so good with it on. Oh, and the cuffs too? You are SO darling.” He pulls Sherlock in close and kisses him deeply. “Did you like your surprise, my pet?”

“The danger, the rush… don’t ever stop doing that to me, don’t ever stop putting me in danger like that. I want the stakes high. I’d even let you hold a knife to my throat as you fucked me. It’s brilliant, what you do to me.” Sherlock is slightly breathless, and not just from taking the stairs quickly.

“I know. I knew that you’d want to feel alive in a way that only danger can make you feel. It’s not the least bit dull, is it Sherlock?"

“No. It’s never boring with you. You know that.”

“Bedroom. Now.” he breathes, a fist in Sherlock’s hair, moving him in the direction of the bedroom. “You did such a good job today, I’m going to give you a reward. What would my darling princess like?”

“Your cock, in my ass. Please,” Sherlock gasps, head back.

“Wish granted,” Moriarty murmurs as he begins to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt. 

Sherlock’s clothes come off first and Moriarty takes a moment to admire his property naked in front of him. “Get down on the bed and get yourself ready for me, pet.” 

He stands watching as Sherlock lies down and begins to finger himself, using some lube from the bedside table. He runs a hand through his boyfriend’s hair and over his chest, looking on with approval. When he judges Sherlock to be ready, he removes his clothes and lies down on the bed behind him, curling himself around him. He nibbles delicately at Sherlock’s ear, making him shiver and gasp. 

Sherlock’s hand starts to drift down to touch himself. Moriarty grabs his wrist and pulls it away, pinning it behind his back. “You’re allowed to come whenever you want. You’re just not allowed to touch your cock.”

Moriarty holds him tighter and pushes his leg up. His cock, already resting between Sherlock’s ass cheeks, begins to push insistently at his hole. Sherlock moans and pushes back against it. He angles down a bit so he can rub his cock against the bed as he does so. Moriarty chuckles when he notices it. “I’ll allow it this time, pet. You know I love seeing how desperately needy I’ve made you."

Moriarty is a man of many talents, and it’s no surprise that fucking is high on the list of talents that he’s put work into becoming exceptionally skilled at. He drives his cock firmly into Sherlock, angling things just right to hit his prostate, making him moan in pleasure. He slides his hand down Sherlock’s abdomen, making him gasp. “Maybe just this once, I’ll be nice to you,” he says, as he slowly wraps his hand around his cock, letting Sherlock slide back and forth in his hand. 

“My god, I loved turning you into a fuck toy, chaining yourself to a fence for a stranger to fuck on my command. Delicious. I love owning you like this, making you fuck who I want, when I want, and all because I told you to.”

Sherlock moans from finally getting to be touched after all the buildup, and he’s pushed over the edge by the combination of Moriarty’s hand on him and cock in his ass. Moriarty increases his rhythm as Sherlock begins to come.

“I saved this cum for you, you know. If you had any idea how badly I wanted to…” whatever Moriarty was about to say is lost in a ragged moan as he comes inside Sherlock’s ass. 

After they come down from their orgasms, Sherlock turns to his boyfriend and asks, “How did you organize everything?”

“Some things will just have to be a mystery, pet. Now let me get you some tea.”

Moriarty hops up to get the tea, and Sherlock stretches out, enjoying the feel of his body and what’s been done to it.

After returning with the tea, and setting it on the bedside table, Moriarty lays down behind Sherlock on the bed, spooning him. Moriarty smells of sweat and sex, and faintly underneath, something spicy, the remnants of the cologne he always wore, a cinnamon scent. His body is warm and familiar as he curls himself around Sherlock, tangling their limbs together. 

“What was it like?” he asks, stroking Sherlock’s hair. 

“It was a rush. My senses all felt heightened from having my sight removed. But it felt somewhat dream-like too, playing out this fantasy. A little like morphine, even.” Sherlock pauses, “What was it like for you?”

“You know how much I like controlling you, and watching you. This way I get the best of both worlds, really. Making you do what I tell you, and seeing it all play out, seeing you become a total slut for me, it’s purely delightful."

“I love these puzzles you make for me. Make it harder next time. Give me a higher security lock. Something I can pick one handed with a rake? Please.” Sherlock makes himself sound scornful, but he knows that Moriarty knows it’s lighthearted.

“Mm, a high security lock, high stakes, some knives maybe? What else can I add?”

“Bring me to a bar, and pick out the man you want to see me with.”

“I like it. You really are becoming a cock slut for me, aren’t you?”

“Perhaps. On some levels it’s a relief, being able to get out this other part of me that’s so different from who I am in my daily work. And of course, giving up the control to you and knowing that you’re watching me is a big part of it."

Sometimes, Sherlock was surprised by just how soft his boyfriend’s skin was under his fingertips. Would anyone imagine that a consulting criminal could be so soft? He affectionately bites Moriarty’s arm gently as he pulls him close.

“What are you feeling right now?"

Sherlock felt warm and even a little glow-y, and not just from the fucking. “The endorphins from this experience are having a physiological effect on me”

“That’s called love, baby.”

  
  
  



End file.
